


just give me your two lips and baby i’ll shut up

by doespenguinsisgay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, im not gonna be that bitch and tag every single pairing, just check the chapter titles for the ships, these r prompts from tumblr :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-20 08:18:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18988831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doespenguinsisgay/pseuds/doespenguinsisgay
Summary: these r just some prompt fills i guess i can put the pairings in the summary? i dont wanna be annoying and tag every ship ever :)also nothing is edited bc im lazy and these r for fun so please bear with me- freddie andersen/connor brown- matthew tkachuk/luke kunin- brock boeser/elias petterson





	1. fredcon; 17

**Author's Note:**

> 17) needing to kiss to hide from bad guys
> 
> this was actually an old WIP that i had that i didn’t ever think i would finish(bc i wanted to expand past the night it ends in) but this au is fun to write

Freddie often finds himself frequenting the same dismal speakeasy near the corner of twelfth and forty-fifth. The lights are weak and yellowed and it’s just dark enough to slip by unnoticed in the waves of sleazy drugstore cowboys that come waltzing in through the heavy oak doors in an attempt to get their greedy hands on whatever bootleg they managed to scrounge up.

 

Tonight, his gun sits heavy in its holster, dusty from disuse, cold metal pressed against his thigh, as he curls his fingers around the shallow glass in front of him. He keeps the brim of his panama hat low, so as to keep the attention of the masses off of his back. Unfortunately for him, he takes up enough space that he’s more than recognizable to those who encounter him regularly, which would explain the hand that claps down on his shoulder early into the night.

 

“Freddie, old boy, fancy seeing you in a joint like this!” The unmistakable voice of the earnest Mitch Marner croons to his left, one of the best shots Freddie’s ever met, and also one of the gabbiest. He’s worked with him on a number of jobs, he once watched him take out a copper with one easy bullet between the eyes from twenty feet away. “You on the prowl? You’ve come to the right place, there’s plenty of skirts milling around here.” He asks, sliding onto the empty stool next to him. Freddie shakes his head, knocking back the rest of his bitter drink.

 

“No, no, nothing like that,” He answers, as Mitch raps his knuckles on the smooth wooden surface of the countertop to get the bartender’s attention. The smaller man raises an eyebrow, keeping his voice low.

 

“Are you here on business, Andersen?” His eyes are dark, serious in a way that only appears when he’s on a job. Even then, it’s rare to catch a glimpse of the graveness on the usually animated, young face. Freddie once again shakes his head, turning the empty glass over in his hands.

 

“Not tonight.” He assures him, adjusting his suit jacket to further mask the holster at his hip. “Just here for a drink.” Mitch nods, sipping at the liquor placed in front of him moments ago. The corner of his mouth twitches as he swallows the stinging bootleg. “What about you, Mitchy, you on the hunt tonight?” Freddie asks, unable to bite his tongue. Mitch has that effect on people, able to loosen their jaws and coax words out of them that they would never dare to speak on their own.

 

“Nah, not me.” He grins, toothy and too-wide for his face. His eyes narrow, scanning each side end of the bar, before shrugging, a little bashfully, for lack of a better word. “Now, I’m telling you this because I know you’d never use it. But I’m actually recently insured, if you know what I’m sayin’.” The tops of his cheeks go a dull pink, avoiding Freddie’s gaze. The larger man raises his eyebrows, lifting his newly filled glass in cheers.

 

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” He tilts his glass slightly, then takes a generous sip. Mitch smiles and mirrors his movements. Freddie thinks he’s too trusting. Of course, he’s right, Freddie would never use the information, but he isn’t sure that’d be the case if it wasn’t Mitch they were talking about. “Aren’t you a little young to be getting hitched, Marner?”

 

“Oh, bite me, I’m plenty old enough.” He shoots back, eyes glittering a little at the playful back and forth. The two men drink in a comfortable silence, the background noise of a hundred conversations and the jazzy hum of the piano washing over them. Freddie lets his gaze drift towards the end of the bar, where a beautiful woman in a loose, fringed dress and an expensive cloche hat stands far too close to a man who had previously lost his suit jacket, only in a pink dress shirt and brown suspenders, pouting her round lips as she whispers something to him. Freddie looks away, so as to not invade a private moment.

 

He glances towards the stage, as the piano dies down, and the lights above the stage burn brighter than they usually would. The curtains rustle slightly before a delicate, gloved hand reaches out from the gap and begins to push them aside, revealing the most beautiful man Freddie has ever laid eyes on. He removes his hat as the man walks further onto to stage and into the light, capturing just about every patron’s attention as he wraps thin fingers around the square silver microphone. The man’s lips are the shade of fine red wine, lashes thick and lids peppered with a deep purple powder. The shapes of his face are sharp and his features are startlingly feminine, but his wiry frame suggests a hidden strength.

 

The piano rings out its first few notes before the man begins to sing, voice low and silky and truly unlike anything Freddie has ever heard before. He hits each note with such a conviction that sends the hairs along the back of his neck standing on end. He looks to Mitch, who is sat frozen with his glass half raised to his lips, eyes stuck on the stage. The man slinks along the stage, reaching out to twirl the tie of a man sitting at a table near the front of the stage between his fingers. Freddie’s chest aches in an envy that feels so foreign under his skin.

 

As he finishes his song, he seems to have put every man and woman in the room under his spell. The singer has the whole drum wrapped around his pinky. He lets the piano close the song, adjusting the extravagant feather boa settled into the crooks of his elbows, draped behind his tapered waist. He disappears behind the curtain once again, leaving Freddie the hollow shell of a man, taking his enchantment with him.

 

“Who was that?” Freddie asks when he finally finds his voice, whole minutes later. Mitch shoots him a look, producing a fag from the inner linings of his suit jacket.

 

“You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Connor Brown?” He asks as he lights the end of the cigarette between his fingers, eyelashes fluttering shut as he inhales, politely turning away from Freddie to push the smoke between his teeth. “He practically runs this juice joint, people come to see him perform from all over the city. Only because this is just about to only place he performs that you don’t have to be on a guestlist to make it into whatever big cheese soiree he’ll be at.”

 

“Don’t sound so bitter, Mitchy, we end up at those more often than not. Comes with the job.” Freddie points out, taking a sizeable sip of his drink. Mitch shrugs, blue eyes uncharacteristically stormy.

 

“What I’m bitter about is that Brown is infamously queer, and no one bats an eye, he’s bookin’ gigs in every corner of the city. But I’ve gotta hide my fiancé to avoid gettin’ the cement shoes.” He frowns, knocks back the rest of his whiskey, and lets the glass hit the counter hard enough to startle the woman next to him. Freddie stares for a second, unable to think of a response at the moment, his thoughts still drifting back to Brown frequently enough that his fingertips are buzzing and he can’t think straight.

 

He definitely had figured out plenty long ago that Mitch was a homosexual, but obviously he hadn’t cared. He himself didn’t aspire to be anything of a lady’s man all too often, so he’d be a bit of a hypocrite to judge. Everything is so different back in Denmark, no one bats an eye at that sort of thing. Here, though, it’s still a crime.

 

“They wouldn’t, you’re too damn good at your job. Maybe it’d cast some shady looks, but the boss knows you’re too much of an asset to get rid of you, unless you become a threat.” Freddie almost laughs at his own words, because no man is more loyal than Mitch Marner. “Am I going to meet this fiancé of yours?” He asks bravely, in a bold attempt to sway the conversation. Mitch presses his lips together, head tilting consideringly.

 

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe I could have you over for dinner at my place, I’d hope that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.” He finally says, after a long pause. The two of them once again are pulled under the tide of silence.

 

Brown makes another appearance that night, just as Freddie is on his way out. He stays stuck to his seat at the bar in his hat and overcoat, eyes fixed on the man above him. The singer has a sort of charm that pulls you in, leaves you dangling in front of something untouchable, each note like velvet pulling you farther and farther towards the edge of your seat. It’s hard to believe a man like this even exists outside of the movies. Just as the singer slips behind the scarlet curtains after two short songs, Freddie catches Mitch rolling his eyes out of the corner of his vision, already working on his second gasper of the night as he follows Freddie towards the exit.

 

The two men part ways once they hit the sidewalk, separating into two different cabs after a firm handshake and a pair of friendly nods. Freddie’s head spins as he lets it drop back against the headrest, watching as the yellow lights of the passing windows streak by the cab, before finally closing his eyes.

 

-

 

Tonight, Freddie’s on business, like he almost always is when he tucks his gun under his dinner jacket and fastens his cufflinks. He moves silently around his apartment in preparation, buttoning his vest, then his coat, tugging at the lapels. He’d hoped that he wouldn’t be too underdressed with the black waistcoat, but after hearing all of Rielly’s gossip about the host of tonight’s dinner, it’s clear they would never have made it onto the guestlist had this been one of his white tie events.

 

Freddie slicks his hair, just enough to tame it, but there’s just no use in attempting to attain the shiny look that’s fashionable these days.

 

Sparks picks him up in a breezer that the boss definitely provided for the two of them. The job pays well, but even their checks couldn’t cash a ride like this. It’s sleek, black, and runs smooth as ever. Freddie dreams of the days where he can afford such luxuries, if he lives long enough to see it. Garrett nods at him as he folds himself into the leather seat.

 

“It’s been awhile, Andy, how’s it been?” He asks as they glide through the streets, clutching the wheel with one hand and holding a fag up to his lips with the other. He looks real sharp, hair slicked against his head and a neat black bowtie settled at his throat, he definitely had to have had some help with the whole getup.

 

“It’s been alright, Sparksy, you?” Freddie returns politely, flicking his pocket watch open to check the time and to make sure everything is running according to schedule. Garrett shrugs as they stop in front of the ritziest damn hotel Freddie has seen in a while, cracking his neck.

 

“Just fine. Mitchy is gonna meet us in there, he knows this bird better than we do. All we gotta do is beat our gums and make nice with the clients to keep an eye on Marns.” Garrett reiterates, the whole reason the bosses had sent them to this thing to keep up the appearance anyway. Freddie nods, ducking out onto the sidewalk.

 

Once they reach the suite, miles above the Toronto skyline, Mitch snags them almost immediately. Within the first few minutes, Mitch is suavely introducing Garrett to one of the client’s daughters, a young Jane who had clearly gotten all dolled up just for this occasion, her bobbed hair curled into her jaw and her face caked with pale powder, lips lined by an unpracticed hand.

 

The rooms are teeming with older folks and richer eggs, drinking expensive champagne and smoking exotic cigars, voices swelling together over the sound of the band, the piano singing out a tune vaguely familiar to Freddie. He sticks close to Mitch and smiles politely when he’s addressed.

 

The two of them get pulled into a long, dry conversation with a Mr. Lou Lamoriello, that serves only as a formality because of his status as one of their ex-associates. Freddie grits his teeth and tries not to slug that grifter in the middle of this big cheese party. He’d put them through hell and back when he had broken off their deal, he’s a bit of snake when it comes to business, but they had known it getting into kahoots with the man. Once they separate themselves from the baby grand of a man, Mitch makes a face and lets out a sigh of relief.

 

“Tense, eh?” He cracks a smile, in attempt to lighten the mood. Freddie grimaces, scratching at his jaw. He scans the room for any suspicious looking characters, deeming it safe for now.

 

“I’ll be right back, I’m gonna see if they have anything stronger than this,” Freddie raises the thin champagne flute between his fingers, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Mitch laughs and lets him leave, weaving his way through the crowd.

 

As he nears the kitchen, he bumps, quite literally, into Mr. Kyle Dubas, whom everyone in the family is very familiar with, and very fond of. He smiles a muted, handsome grin at Freddie and clasps his shoulder with the hand that isn’t balancing a cigar between his fingers. The person he had just been speaking to remains out of view from Freddie, as Dubas begins to speak.

 

“Mr. Andersen, it’s so good to finally see you again. It’s been quite some time. How are you finding the party?” He gestures to the room, and Freddie knows what he’s asking. Dubas owns the hotel, he couldn’t care less to listen to Freddie’s gripes with the lack of stronger, browner liquor. The mobster smiles easily and compliments the suite like it’s the only thing on his mind. Dubas looks content with that, and steps aside to introduce whoever he’d been with. “Mr. Andersen, I’m sure you’re aware of Mr. Connor Brown. He’s quite well known around the city, and for good reason, too.” And, by all things holy, there Connor Brown stands, in all of his glory.

 

He somehow is even more intense off the stage than on it, especially tonight. His getup is truly a sight, a dark red gown perfectly tailored to fit every curve of his body, with a large fur coat hugging his arms and shoulders. His lips are scarlet and his cheekbones and eyelids shimmer with gold. And he’s looking at Freddie like he wants to drink him up.

 

“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Andersen.” Brown says smoothly, holding a dainty hand out for Freddie to shake. Freddie watches as his fingers swallow Brown’s own, ears growing hot. He meets his eyes, bright green and half lidded and able to yank the fishing hook through Freddie’s cheek until he’s caught.

 

“You as well, Mr. Brown.” He returns, and sparks are pooling in Freddie’s fingertips as he struggles to come up with more to say. Luckily, his mouth works faster than his brain. “I’ve heard great things about your talents.” Brown smiles, red lips stretching over pearly white teeth. His grin is crooked, but looks nothing short of perfect at the same time.

 

“You’ve never seen me perform?” He raises his eyebrows, seeming genuinely surprised. Freddie shakes his head, which is a fib, of course, but he doesn’t want to risk Brown asking where. Admitting you’ve been out to a speakeasy at parties like these is usually frowned upon, no socialite would be caught dead speaking with his own lips that he had been ordering bootleg. “Well, darling, stick around. I’ll give you a show.” He purrs, shooting Freddie a subtle wink. Dubas clears his throat and, seemingly, snaps the two of them out of their bubble, reminding them of his presence.

 

“It was nice speaking to you, but I have promised other guests that I would introduce Mr. Brown to them before his performance begins.” Dubas tells him apologetically, shaking Freddie’s hand before leading Brown away. Before following, the crooner gently runs his fingers over Freddie’s shoulder, looking up at him through long, painted eyelashes.

 

“Good to meet you, Mr. Andersen.” He clinks their champagne flutes together and saunters away, slipping into the crowd to follow Dubas. Freddie blinks into his champagne and tries to sweep away the cobwebs clouding his brain, the spot on his arm that Brown’s hand had rested burning through his suit jacket like a brand. Before he can move, Mitch appears back at his side.

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He teases, sipping at the bubbly refilling his glass. Freddie shakes his head, straightening back up as he gets another quick glance of the surrounding party.

 

“Became acquainted with your favorite,” The mobster prefaces, nodding at the conversation Brown is having with a pair of much older men, lead by Dubas. Mitch rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his champagne. “You have to admit, he is very charming.”

 

“You’re just lonely and near zozzled.” Mitch shakes his head, adjusting his cufflinks and turning his attention to where Sparksy is standing, just to check on where he is in the night. Freddie knows he’s bulling, that he just doesn’t want to admit that Brown has a similar effect on people that Mitch himself does. However, Mitch is more of a livewire, whereas Brown is smooth and buttery and melts into your thoughts before you even know it. The two of them are, however, unmistakably likeable to the unsuspecting bird. Freddie doesn’t have to the time to argue that, really, he’s barely even tipsy, before the piano trills and the voices begin to hush.

 

Sauntering through the crowd is, speak of the devil, Brown himself, positioning himself in front of the large, lavish mantel. He lets his fur coat slip down his arms in one fluid motion, settling one hand on his hip, at the crook of his waist. Freddie’s mouth runs dry, as Brown locks eyes with him, the corner of his crimson lips tugging up into a smirk that rolls in confidence. He belts out the first notes, and everything else fades into the background.

 

Brown’s voice fills the empty spaces of the room, sweet and slow like warm caramel, wrapping Fred up like a silk robe. It compliments the band like he was made to accompany the brass. He sways his hips to the trumpets, more expressive than he had been at the speakeasy, flashing a crooked, blinding smile as he sings. There’s a moment in the set where he points a gloved finger right at Freddie, winking his way, before pulling his gaze away from the mobster to sing to someone else in the crowd. The conversation is still thrumming under the music, quieter than before, now just mixing with the noise. 

 

Brown holds Freddie’s attention the palm of his hand, until Mitch grabs at his arm, dragging him away from the mantel.

 

“We’ve got a problem,” Mitch grumbles, eyes dark and free hand resting above his hip, where his gun would usually rest in its holster. Freddie understands, his body suddenly at full attention, searching the crowd for Sparks, who has disappeared from the party. When at events like these, it’s common procedure that no one leaves without a signal. Without  _ something. _ They muscle through the guests while causing as little distress as possible. They’re edging near the balcony when Garrett comes scrambling down the stairs, face pale.

 

“We better mooch, a fight is about to break out. Someone owes someone money, we don’t need to be around when it happens. Apparently Brown’s manager is screwing him over, making him look like the one keeping the money. They’ll kill him.” Sparks gulps, eying nervously over his shoulder. Freddie’s stomach twists, guilt pressing her sharp, ugly heel into the center of his gut. He can’t bring himself to leave Brown out in the open like that. Of course, they can’t directly save him, but they can delay the hit enough for him to make a clean sneak.

 

“Wouldn’t do us well to be heeled and let Dubas’s entertainment get clipped in his hotel.” Freddie points out, keeping his expression as steeled as he can. Mitch frowns, jaw set. He doesn’t protest, but surely doesn’t look happy about it, and Garrett nods solemnly. “Not too obvious, now. Don wouldn’t want us making a scene either. You boys have seen the goons, tail ‘em. I’ll take care of Brown.” Mitch scoffs, shaking his head.

 

“I’m sure you will.” He bites, but dusts out without another word. Freddie, who hasn’t lost track of Brown the entire night since his interaction with Dubas, returns to the cluster of swanky older men and the too-young women hanging off of their arms gathered to hear the crooner perform.

 

Urgency is tangling and tussling with adrenaline slicking through Freddie’s whole body as he skirts the crowd, looking over heads to keep an eye out for anyone as an immediate threat. Time goes by at a honey slow pace as Brown brings his brief set to a close. The mobster lingers near the gap in the crowd forming to let the singer exit back into the room, as a means to intercept him before he gets caught up in the drum. His manners slip off of his tongue as he interrupts a stocky, round-faced man in a bowler hat, bodying his way in front of Brown so that he corners him from the rest of the crowd. His pulse spikes, but it’s not in their best interest to make a scene.

 

“Mr. Andersen, what brings you to this part of the lounge?” He greets with a joke on his lips, charm rolling off his tongue like a first language. Freddie can feel his ears go hot. The mobster wrings his hands, thoughts racing to come up with an excuse to get him away from prying ears. Luck is in his favor tonight when the crooner continues, “Care to join me out on the balcony? I’m gasping for a smoke and it’s a beautiful night.”

 

The balcony doors slide closed to block out any possible pipers, but Freddie keeps a watch on the party going on inside, in case they’re being tailed. He’s proven correct in his suspicions after the singer has lit his long, skinny cigarette and is blowing smoke towards the smoggy skyline, back to the doors. A man in what appear to be his best glad rags- and might be too formal for even a big shot soiree such as this- appears in the pane of glass, looking over his shoulder. Freddie catches Mitch’s eye close behind him. He panics.

 

In the heat of the moment, Freddie spins Brown by the hips and collides their lips together in one smooth movement, pressing him up against the railing so that he’s completely obscured from the egg behind them’s view. Brown makes a pitchy noise of surprise, hands coming up to grasp the back of Freddie’s neck, and melts into the mobster. They kiss for a few, irrelevantly glorious, moments more before the sound of the door slides closed and they’re once again alone on the balcony. As soon as Freddie pulls away to bring any air desperate back into his lungs, Brown is fluttering those long, curly lashes and is wiping away a smear of red lipstick from the side of his chin, a smirk ever present on his alluring mouth.

 

“Forgive me, but your manager is chiseling you.” Freddie pants, not daring to take a step back, not with Brown’s hands still clasped behind his neck. “You’ve got a couple of Bruno’s tailin’ you. They’ll try ‘nd fog ya, is my best guess. You’ve gotta breeze sooner or later.” Brown sighs, shakes his head as he drifts back down to reality.

 

“Well, Mr. Andersen, you sure do know how to save a guy’s life.” Brown laughs breathlessly, a noise that makes Freddie feel all gowed-up. He looks over the mobster’s shoulder, watching the party like it’s a silent film. “I should be going soon. But I hope to see you again, despite tonight’s circumstances. What do those Flaming Youth call it, a  _ rendez-vous?” _ Brown steps closer to Freddie, his hand resting delicately on his chest, toying with the buttons of Freddie’s waistcoat. He tilts his head to look up at the mobster, wine colored lips pulling up into a dazzling smirk that pulls Freddie forward.

 

“Cash or check?” The larger man asks cryptically, hands bracketing Brown’s hips where they grip the railing of the balcony. Under their feet, the Toronto nightlife is thriving like a well-oiled machine, working in it’s own, mysterious ways. Brown slides his hand up, fingertips grazing Freddie’s cleanly shaven jaw, leaning up even more. As their lips begin to brush once more, they can hear the door to the suite slide open. Brown drops to his heels, glancing over Freddie’s shoulder as an older woman sticks her head through the doorway, eyes plastered to the sky, before disappearing again, the door left open. She had, luckily, been oblivious to the two men. Brown sighs, eyes still alight with the same spark that had been there the moment he had seen Freddie.

 

“Check,” He purrs, almost like a challenge, before slipping away from the gangster and disappearing back into the suite, swinging his hips with each step. Freddie can’t help it as he watches him go.


	2. luke/matt; 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 58) moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed
> 
> uh idk im gonna b real matt and luke r 17 in this and while i dont really go into detail its implied that they do stuff beyond, obviously, the kiss that im writing abt but like i said its not gonna describe anything its just stated as a fact but idk read at ur own risk ya know!

Luke has been staring him down all night, eyes intense and boring into the side of Matt’s head from the other side of the room, and it’s starting to make Matt squirm. It isn’t an angry or hateful stare by any means, which puts to rest some of the fleeting impossibilities that for a moment dance through Matt’s head to make his heart drop into his stomach. He’s just- looking. Looking and looking and looking, like Matt’s got a big sign on his forehead that Luke keeps trying to read. Every little thing Matt does feels scrutinized and watched, and it ups the intensity by a mile when they finally get out on the ice. 

 

Matt plays his heart out, he always does, but maybe tonight he gave an even bigger piece of his soul to the game now that he could  _ feel _ Luke watching. He always wants to do his best, but something about his best friend tracking his every movement makes him hyperconscious of each play he makes and word he says. He just isn’t sure what to  _ do _ about it.

 

The NTDP boys have their own little celebration after a hard fought win, even if they’re all still teenagers someone manages to smuggle booze from their host family’s liquor cabinet to their post-game cellies in one of the guys’ basement. Matt finds a seat in front of the couch right next to Luke, who is staring quietly at the cards being sloppily dealt around the circle, arms around his knees. Matt bumps his shoulder against Luke’s, cheesiest grin he can muster up stuck to his face.

 

“Gonna have to cheat again or are you tapping out for tonight?” Matt teases, taking the Solo cup from a random outstretched hand and swirling the liquid inside of it. It burns at his nostrils when he sniffs at the drink. Luke rolls his eyes, soft smile curling up at the corners.

 

“Whatever, Chuk, it’s called strategy.” He bites back and doesn’t say anything else, but he keeps his eyes trained on Matt. He can even feel Luke watching as he tilts his head back and drains the bitter liquid in his cup, crushing it in his hand. So, he’s a little bit of a jock and a little bit of a show-off. “You’re stupid.” Luke tells him fondly, leaning against him a little bit heavier and Matt has to remind his pounding heart that he’s just trying to get a look of his cards.

 

Matt drinks, but hell, everyone does except Luke- not his Luke, the other Luke- because he’d promised to drive some of the boys whose host families live across town. Jesus, no,  _ his _ Luke can outdrink Matt every day of the week, and somehow maintains his intensity through it all. And, as always, is watching Matt as he struggles to tell a story over Hanny’s increasingly  _ annoying _ interjections. Drunk Matt’s shoulder-sized angel and devil- in the form of Luke and AMatts, respectively- are now both swaying him onto the tempting path of confrontation, but he decides against it for now.

 

He’s slumped low in the crevice of the two couch cushions, dozing off and crushed between Zach and Charlie, when Luke finally interacts with him for the first time since the card game, instead of just glaring him down like Matt has a giant, grotesquely detailed tattoo of a cock on his forehead. Luke puts his hands on his shoulders from behind the couch and shakes him gently, before slapping him not enough to hurt, but enough for a solid  _ thwap _ to echo through the hollow basement. Matt blinks his eyes open, tilting his head back to smile at upside down Luke, who looks a little lost and a little like he had forgotten what he had been in the middle of.

 

“‘Time is it?” Matt breathes, barely getting the words out as separate entities. The mix of the alcohol and the exhaustion are weighing him down like fifty pound weights strapped to his limbs. He barely catches the glimpse of a response that Luke gives him, but it’s an exchange that they have often enough that Matt knows what he’ll say before he even says it.

 

“Bed ti-ime.” Luke giggles, pumping a lazy fist in the air as he drags out the second syllable. With very subtle struggle, Matt throws himself onto the floor and rights himself by the seat of his pants. They say good night to the remaining boys, making sure they either have blankets or a ride home, and take about twenty minutes as a whole to get them both up two flights of stairs, groping blindly at the wall and tangling fingers into the other’s clothing to keep balance. Matt almost cellies too hard when they reach the top of the staircase and narrowly misses falling backwards down the stairs and into the foyer. They brush their teeth in the bathroom, side-by-side in the mirror, and as he spits out his toothpaste, Matt can’t help but notice how pretty the shade of pink that spreads across Luke’s cheeks when he’s embarrassed or drunk is. Luke scrunches his face up at him and crosses his eyes. Matt laughs.

 

Tripping over themselves, they travel down to the end of the hallway, bumping into walls and door knobs. Luke’s going to be so bruised tomorrow, he bruises so easily. When they finally get the door closed behind them, Matt turns to find two warm brown eyes watching him with a hazy look in them. Matt grabs a fistful of Luke’s shirt and hauls him in until they’re almost chest-to-chest.

 

“You were staring at me all day.” He complains, unsure of what he’s expecting to come of this, as Luke just smiles wider at him and lolls his head on his shoulders like it’s too heavy for his neck. Matt is so, so confused and it hurts to think, what the fuck is going on? Luke puts a clumsy hand on Matt’s face, swiping a thumb over his cheek.

 

“Sue me, you’re hot.” He mumbles, pressing their foreheads together as Matt’s hand goes from Luke’s shirt to his waist, sinking under the waistband of his sweats. They’re both swaying on their feet, anchored together.

 

“No, you.” Matt frowns, getting a hand on the side of Luke’s neck and feeling the pulse against his palm as their lips move together. Luke shoves against his chest until they start moving, lips locked the entire way across what feels like miles of bedroom. Matt almost trips over the kicked up corner of the rug and Luke steadies him with lucky hands, pushing up into his space. The backs of Matt’s knees hit the bed frame, and Luke is sliding his tongue between Matt’s lips and it all feels like so much.

 

Luke makes a noise of frustration against his mouth, and pushes and shoves until Matt is stumbling backwards onto the mattress and Luke is tipping over with him, already wriggling to get comfortable on top of him. Matt slides his hands down to grab at Luke’s ass, and he snorts against Matt’s mouth. Matt rolls with it.

  
  
  


The next morning, Matt is woken up far, far too early by the pale sunlight streaming in through the translucent curtains in Luke’s room that serve absolutely zero purpose in his life, and he takes stock of how much he feels like hell. His head is pounding to the rhythm of the Imperial March and his mouth tastes like something crawled down his throat and died and he’s drenched in sweat, because it’s so stiflingly hot in this God forsaken room-

 

“‘Morning, Chuk.” Luke breathes into his chest, letting out a groan as he rubs his eyes before burying his face back into the skin of Matt’s collarbone. Matt lays there stunned, tightening his fingers around the hip bone that belongs to  _ Luke _ of all people, and in some weird, fucked up way it all feels like it’s falling into place. Matt can’t help but watch the shifting muscles in Luke’s face, dark thick lashes fluttering occasionally and concealing rich brown eyes, the gentle cut of his nose and the perfect curve of his mouth. Matt feels a little weird just staring, but he’s got plenty of time to make up for when Luke was staring at him.


	3. fredcon; 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 73) height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes
> 
> this is just short nd wholesome nothin to warn u abt

Connor’s not small, not really. In the realm of hockey, next to big beefy goons and goalies with long, lanky limbs, it’s easy to gather that misconception. Connor towers over plenty of people he meets in his daily life, he hits six ft and plenty of his past girlfriends have taken a liking to his height. The only place he’s used to feeling small is on the ice, sandwiched between a guy and the boards, but he makes up for it in other ways. He’s quick on his feet and delivers the kind of check that throws his whole weight into it, aiming square for the chest with his padded shoulder. All his life he’d been told he’s too small to play, so why the hell would he prove them right now?

 

He’s conditioned to be the bigger one in his relationships, that’s all he knows. Past girlfriends had been short enough to rest his chin on the top of their heads, and he hadn’t dated a girl yet that had wanted to be the big spoon. Not that he’d be opposed to it.

 

When Connor starts hooking up with guys at first- usually those who he attracts at the bar without having to do much canvassing, which in itself can be a dangerous endeavor for someone in the public eye- they’re around the same size as him, if not a little smaller. It’s an easier adjustment that way, the sensation of stubble scratching at his cheeks or a flat firm chest beneath his or big calloused palms guiding his hips already so foreign. He never falls for the big burly bears that approach him at bars trying to get him to be their twink dream only to find out that he isn’t actually as delicate as he looks, so it’s all new to him when Freddie begins to take up regular space in Connor’s life.

 

Connor likes it, he realizes while washing the dishes one evening and Freddie appears behind him to wrap around him like a destitute octopus and envelopes him, when Freddie makes him feel small. It isn’t in a demeaning or mocking manor, Freddie isn’t capable of being genuinely any of those things towards his friends, he just handles Connor like he’s something precious.

 

It’s kind of comforting, in a way, when Freddie brackets Connor against the bed or pushes him against the wall and holds him up, with Connor’s legs locked around his waist. There’s a false sense of security, even safety in being the small one. It’s really weird to think about.

 

It doesn’t really cross his mind until Connor is stepping into the locker room after a game, out as a precaution because his shoulder had been bugging him the past few days. All of the guys are still listening to Babs’ rundown of their play, a decently gritty win that they more or less scraped out of the bottom of the barrel, but it’s two points nonetheless. Connor waits in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he listens to Coach talk. He catches Freddie’s eye, shoots him a tiny grin, and looks back at Babs.

 

They’re all still in their gear when he finally retreats back to his office, and Connor makes his rounds, chirps Zach on the mustache he’s growing as always, ruffles Mitchy’s hair for a beautiful assist, and stops at Freddie’s stall. He’s still in his pads from the waist down, fiddling with the buckle on his mask. He stands up to place it at the top shelf of his stall, and Connor takes a step back. He only comes up to about Freddie’s chin, and he actually has to tilt his head back to look up at him. It makes the tips of his fingers buzz pleasantly.

 

“Great game, bud. Thought some of those shots were goin’ in.” Connor tells him as he leans against the stall, smoothing out his tie as Freddie starts to unfasten the buckles of his pads.

 

“You underestimate me.” He snarks back, voice flat and monotone, but Connor can see the subtle smile gracing his lips under ginger stubble. It’s a sight he’ll never get used to without the feeling of butterflies in his chest. “You’re small without skates.”

 

“You think I’m small regardless.” Connor gently kicks Freddie’s ankle, just as a PR assistant makes her rounds and tells everyone who has media duty tonight. As per usual, Freddie’s on the list. The goalie stands to reach for the bottle of water above him, cracking the lid as he speaks.

 

“I’ll meet you at the car?” Freddie offers, and Connor hums affirmatively. He leans up onto his toes, straining to reach Freddie’s mouth as they exchange a quick peck of the lips, an  _ I’ll see you later _ kiss that leaves a promise of each other soon. In his skates, Freddie has to bend down a bit to actually reach, free hand settled in the crook of Connor’s wait, before they’re pulling away and Connor is making his way back across the room. He’s sure no one’s seen them, until Naz catches him by the elbow.

 

“That’ll be a ten, next time I see you.” He gestures to the fine jar, filled with various colored bills and coins. Of course Naz of all people would be watching them like a hawk for something to fine Connor on. He usually doesn’t get the chance, since he and Freddie are both pretty private people. This is one of the rare times they’ve actually kissed in front of the boys, just because Connor knows Freddie’s about to get dragged through the mud in his interview, being demanded to explain the mistakes of his teammates when his responsibilities lie nowhere near the forecheck. It’s worth a ten, to offer a little comfort. Whatever, Mitchy’d get fined double if it were him.


	4. petey/brock; 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7) an “i’ve missed you” kiss
> 
> uwu i love these 2 sm please enjoy

Elias does his best to stay busy, stay occupied. It’s easy to get wrapped up in lesson plans and curriculum and grading, and for the most part it keeps him blissfully numb as he grinds through the lonely nights. He loves his job and adores his days spent at school, it’s easy to forget about the sharp and the ugly of adulthood when one’s in a room full of bright and happy kids who have still so much to learn about the world and see things through rose-colored glasses. Friendships made among other teachers keep him positive too. It just becomes a sickening pattern of sleeping in a cold bed and his heart jumping into his throat at each ring of the phone.

 

He hadn’t grown up thinking he’d become a military husband-to-be, it sort of happened before everything sunk in. He’d fallen in love with a younger Brock in college, a Brock with pinker cheeks and much longer hair and a rounder face. He’d known that Brock intended to join the army after he’d graduated, but reality hadn’t hit him until the days leading up to his departure. Elias had held it together for so long, staying strong as he helped him pack and saw him for the first time in uniform. But his heart had shattered behind his solemn facade. He didn’t want to make it any harder for Brock.

 

Every day, Elias misses him. He misses his smile and his music and his jokes and his cooking. He misses his gentle hands and words and lips. He misses everything about Brock. He really couldn’t be any prouder of his fiancé, but it scares him half to death when an unknown number calls his phone because he fears what news could be awaiting him on the other line. It doesn’t make the long months of deportation any easier while he’s back here in Minnesota.

 

He keeps his routine neat and tidy, wakes up early each morning before school, showers, and makes two cups of coffee when it’s his turn to drive. He puts on a tie that he hopes the kids will like and makes sure he has all of the correct papers in his bag. He picks up Quinn on his way to the school and he grinds until pick-up, after which he can go home to his too-big house and grade assignments until he passes out on the living room couch. He doesn’t stray far from the beaten path.

 

“Maybe you should get a pet.” Quinn had suggested around a mouthful of salad on their lunch break one day, feet up on the lounge table, as Jake had stared at the poorly-lacquered dress shoes like they just insulted his wife. Elias considers it for weeks, he wouldn’t mind a cat to keep him company. The added life to the house does make the nights easier on him, and he soon finds a new companion in a runt-of-the-litter, frail black and white cat who had stared him down in the shelter with the same look Elias gives people that he’s too scared to approach but wants them to speak to him: something of pure disdain. He’d known he was the one the moment he’d picked the animal up into his arms.

 

The kids and the cat keep him plenty busy, at home and at school, and they quite like each other too. Well, the kids love the cat. The cat isn’t aware of the kids unless he can understand Swedish.

 

“Mr. P, can we see more pictures of Oskar?” Ana, a little girl with a full head of dark curls and an affinity for math, calls towards his desk during snack time. Elias had been preparing their next lesson, just a worksheet on their spelling words, so he indulges for a quick moment.

 

“He’s getting fat, as you can see here.” Elias projects a few pictures onto the board, that he had taken over the long weekend. Oskar, oddly enough, is perfectly content going on walks like a dog, so Elias takes him to the park near his house on nice days. The kids coo and crane their necks to get a better look. “That’s alright, though, it means he’s well-fed.”

 

It’s always easier to teach them after they’ve taken little breaks in their lessons, so he glides into their spelling block rather smoothly and with little hiccups, and the ease carries over for the rest of the day.

  
  
  


The second grade teachers are all pretty similar in age and personality, so it’s no surprise that they’ve all become a tightly knit group. They do, on occasion, do normal things like going out or having game nights, but in the thick of the school year nobody has time for actual plans. Which is what ends them up in Elias’s living room, an extensive sea of papers proliferated around them as they work in a shifting silence of scratching pens and ruffling assignments. It’s nice to grade in the companionship of other people, especially fellow educators who understand the endless flow of work. 

 

Sat next to Bo on the sofa with a manila folder in his lap, Elias distantly misses the nights spent on this very couch, Brock reading a book while he was hunched over the coffee table as he double-checked simple multiplication. He suppresses a sigh and goes back to the work sat in front of him. He’s used to such intrusion in his thoughts on daily tasks of every variety.

  
  
  


Today, Elias is feeling particularly irritable today. Not with his kids, never with his kids, but Oskar had kept him up last night, mewling for attention and stepping on his chest. Then, Quinn had been especially moody on the ride over here, barely speaking a word to the driver as he huffed and tapped incessantly at his phone. And Jesus, if this stupid fucking librarian gets on him one more time about overdue books that one of his kids hadn’t even  _ checked out, _ he’s going to lose it. By dismissal, his energy is drained from him like a vacuum had been placed in the center of his chest and a splitting headache had do graciously began to form behind his eyes. He waves to each and everyone of the kids as they leave, because he can’t  _ not, _ but the knock that follows their departure makes him want to cry. He drops his head into his hands, and his visitor knocks again. He groans.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” He grumbles, more to himself than anything else, as he hauls himself out of his desk and gets a grip on the handle. Elias takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, bracing himself for another responsibility or annoyance to throw itself at him. Instead, he’s met with a sight that he hasn’t been granted in eleven long months. “Holy shit.”

 

Standing in his doorway, looking far too big among the five foot lockers and tiny chairs and tables, is Brock, still in uniform, a small, breakable smile on his face. The breath in Elias’s chest seizes up and leaves his lungs all at once, a tiny noise of disbelief caught in his throat. The world appears to have stopped spinning, the air around them stagnant and unmoving.

 

“Hi, Petey.” Brock whispers, snapping the stillness between them, and Elias launches himself at his fiancé.

 

Crashing into Brock’s arms for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s hazy and impalpable, like a dream. The warmth coming from Brock’s broad chest doesn’t seem real, and the warm cup of his palm on the back of Elias’s head feels like a whisper. He just feels like he needs to hide his face away for awhile and breathe him all in, like he needs to be engulfed to believe his eyes and ears and hands. He thinks he hears Jake’s voice behind them, but he can’t focus on that over the finger stroking up his spine.

 

“Oh my God, you’re home early. I had a fucking countdown, you asshole.” Elias manages, voice pinched and watery, and he recognizes for the first time the tears prickling behind his eyes. Brock squeezes him tighter, chuckling heartily, like it’s a release in his chest, and buries his face into Elias’s hair.

 

“I’m home for good, baby. I’m home for good.” Brock says it like a hymn, swaying them slowly back and forth. When their lips finally connect, like magnets beneath their skin are drawing them closer together, it feels like. Everything. It’s like an explosion and it’s like chaos and it’s like fireworks. It’s soft and it’s home and it’s perfect. It’s months of waiting and waiting finally coming to a close, relieving Elias of the everlasting ache in his chest, the piece of his heart that Brock had taken with him overseas.

 

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” Elias gasps out in a broken sob, fingers digging into the coarse material of Brock’s jacket. He can’t control any of his reactions at this point, he’s just overwhelmed with relief and happiness and love. He feels  _ complete _ again.

 

“I missed you too, sugar. It was unbearable. But I’m home now.” Elias grips him tighter, letting himself be crushed against Brock’s body. There’s a dull pulse in his ribs beginning to throb but he pays no attention to that. There are phone cameras he can spot over Brock’s shoulder, but he pays no attention to those. He can’t focus on anything other than the sensation of Brock, with him here and now. At this very moment, nothing else in this whole world matters. However, a very menial thought manifests in the center of raw emotion thrumming through Elias’s whole body.

 

“Oh, fuck, I can’t wait for you to meet Oskar.” He says, and his coworkers laugh from the hallway, but Brock just smiles, and it’s all that matters. It’s all that ever matters.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a request :) come see me on tumblr/request a prompt at [starryandersen](starryandersen.tumblr.com)


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